


The Reawakening of John Watson

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternate Universe - Western, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Sherlock, Bisexual John, Blow Jobs, Colorado, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Experienced Sherlock, Fairly explicit sexual content, Frottage, Johnlock Roulette, London, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Outdoor Sex, POV John Watson, Past Drug Use, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Rimming, Sensuality, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Western setting but not a typical 'Western', Writer John, flirty Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to escape his troubled past in England, John Watson has started a new life in the American West. When he meets the handsome artist Sherlock Holmes, a smoldering attraction is sparked, complicating his quiet, carefully guarded existence. Maybe taking a risk with Sherlock is exactly what John needs to feel alive again...</p><p>(This story is set in the late 1800s in the West, but it's not a traditional Western. The setting provides a rich background as the boys work their way through a number of challenges, ending up as we know them back at Baker Street in Victorian London. It has a little bit of everything in it -- sexual tension, sensual Sherlock, a bit of fluff, some angst, delicious erotica (peaches! bearded John! Walt Whitman poetry!)... lots of goodies.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! A few fair warnings before we start: Minor character death, Mary is evil in this story. Also, I did some half-arsed research on historical details, so don't count on it being entirely accurate.
> 
> Comments are always welcomed with glee!

_**Colorado, late 1800s** _

The ride into town was turning out to be surprisingly hot, the sun stronger than John had anticipated. He pulled the brim of his hat lower to shade his eyes, tugged lightly on the reins to pull his mare's attention away from the tempting grass that had greened up nicely after a spring storm.

"Not now, Bluebell," John chided her gently.

It felt good to be outside in the warm breeze again after a long and solitary winter, although John hadn’t particularly minded the isolation. He’d read a lot of Shakespeare during the dark evenings, mended a bridle and some hand tools, even done some more writing. Not that he thought of himself as a serious writer, really…

His father had always mocked him for putting pen to paper. _“You’re training to be a doctor, not a goddamned novelist. Nobody cares what you write, unless it’s a prescription.”_

John shook his head, dismissing his father’s surly voice. It was no wonder he’d joined the army medical services and shipped out to India as soon as he could. After six years of oppressive heat, military rations, and malaria, he'd returned to the damp chill of England for a teaching position at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. A complicated series of circumstances had then led him to the dry air and empty expanses of Colorado. He sometimes missed London, but returning wasn’t an option for him anymore. He’d burned that bridge. Or rather, it had been torched for him.

He forced his focus back to the present, mentally ticking through the list of supplies he needed. Coffee. Sugar. Flour. Nails. A bottle of whiskey wouldn’t hurt.

The outline of the ramshackle town came into view, and soon he could make out the general store, barber, and tavern. Scattered nearby sat the train depot, hotel, schoolhouse, bank, and blacksmith. A smattering of houses and other businesses ringed the main street, with more seeming to spring up every week. Further out were the undertaker, jail, a shabby church, and unkempt graveyard. John thought he could see several fresh graves. Conditions weren’t so forgiving out here.

First things first. John headed to the tavern. He dismounted, threw the reins over the hitching post, and strode into the dim and smoky room. He cast his eyes over the motley clientele, nodding curtly to a few familiar faces. He headed straight to the polished bar and ordered a beer. He wasn’t in the mood to make small talk.

The lukewarm beer sluiced through his parched throat. He swallowed down the first glass and ordered a second, nursing it slower this time. He glanced up into the tarnished mirror that spanned the back of the bar, catching his own reflection. He ran a hand over his bristly jaw. He’d meant to shave days ago.

“Aww, hell!” An angry voice cut through the room, interrupting John's thoughts.

John glanced up into the mirror again, locating the source of the outburst among a group of card players sitting behind him. It was Anderson, the undertaker. John watched as Anderson threw his cards down in disgust and leaned menacingly across the table, glaring at another player. “You fucking cheated!”

The bar fell silent as all eyes turned toward the scene. Hands moved subtly to hover over holsters. These accusations rarely ended well.

John heard a drawn-out sigh and saw a long arm reach out to scoop up the pile of cash from the center of the table. “I really didn’t,” a baritone voice answered calmly.

John couldn’t see the face of the man Anderson was accusing, but his voice was striking -- deep, resonant, English accent, rather posh. The stranger was thin, his shoulder blades sharply outlined against the black fabric of his suit. It was an expensive suit, fashionable. Probably some card sharp dandy who’d arrived on the 2:00 train, ready to rob the local dupes blind. John settled in to watch.

“Then how do you explain winning 10 hands in a row?” Anderson seethed.

“I won because you can’t play poker worth shit.”

Anderson’s face turned an unflattering shade of purple. “I ought to knock the fuckin’ teeth right outta your head, pretty boy,” he hissed, spittle flying.

The other man tucked the money into the inside pocket of his topcoat and stood up. His hand remained inside his jacket. John could see Anderson and the whole room calculating the odds of that hand reappearing with a pistol in its grip.

The dark haired stranger moved slowly, carefully, withdrawing his hand and holding his arms up slightly. “That,” he replied coolly, “would be terribly ambitious of you.”

Anderson sneered, then lept across the table at the man, his hands going to his throat as they nearly toppled to the floor.

The room burst into whoops and jeers, chair legs scraping against the plank floor as everyone jostled for a better view of the entertainment.

John drank his beer and kept an eye on the melee. He’d seen countless similar off-duty drunken escapades. Anderson managed to get in one decent right hook that the wiry stranger shook off surprisingly quickly. He took up a fighting stance, circled Anderson, and smiled, blood seeping from one nostril. And then he let loose a flurry of punches that sent Anderson reeling back onto the table.

So he had some boxing experience, John noted, even more intrigued. Two of Anderson’s cronies lept to his defense, advancing on the stranger, sloppily throwing fists in his direction. Another roar rose from the crowd, a few more men hurling into the fray for the sheer opportunity to pummel anyone.

John hunkered over his beer. He didn’t want any trouble.

“Gentleman!” Yet another voice boomed through the cacophony from the doorway, demanding instant attention. The fighting slowed, then stopped as a silver-haired man stepped authoritatively into the bar room. It was Lestrade, the sheriff.

“Now, then, gents, why don’t we all calm down?” Lestrade sauntered around the room like an irritated school teacher sniffing out the instigator of a schoolyard brawl. He stopped, then leaned down and gripped Anderson’s lapels, dragging him to his feet. “Philip, I might’ve known you’d be here.”

“Sheriff,” Anderson acknowledged him grudgingly through a split lip and swelling eye.

“Having a bit of trouble?” Lestrade asked him.

“It’s him,” Anderson blurted out, pointing at the stranger. “He’s a cheating bastard.”

Lestrade turned to evaluate the man, who eyed him back warily.

“Well, maybe you just had a bad run of luck today, Philip,” Lestrade finally said, brushing off Anderson’s lapels with exaggerated wipes of his hand. “You’d best head home. Let Sally patch you up.”

Lestrade then turned back to the stranger. “And you’d best be on your way, too, friend.”

Still watching the scene play out in the mirror, John saw the man flex his bloodied knuckles once, then nod.

“Doc,” Lestrade called over his shoulder. “Help our friend outside, please.”

John tensed, then felt the eyes of the room burning into his back. _Shit._ He slowly drained his beer, then straightened up. Lestrade would owe him a big favor for this…

John could feel his training kick in, the level-headed soldier helping to diffuse a volatile situation. He walked up to the stranger, gave him a once-over. He was a few years younger than himself, and quite a few inches taller. His face was angular, his eyes an unusual blue, his lips sensual. The unexpected combination threw John off for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “All right then, c’mon.” He turned on his heel, and the man followed, just as he’d expected.

John walked until he came to the blacksmith, far enough away from the scene to draw less attention. He stopped, turned to look again at the man who was now holding a white handkerchief to his bloody nose.

“So… did you cheat?” John asked him directly.

The man rolled his eyes. “Not at all. I just happen to have a good memory.”

John crossed his arms in front of his chest, skeptical. “Counting cards?”

The man sniffed disdainfully. “I call it careful observation.”

John smiled wryly. “That’ll get you killed someday.”

“Yes, well, thank you for that observation, Doctor,” the man said distractedly, moving his fingers over the rising bruise on his cheek, then the bridge of his nose. “Don’t think anything’s broken, do you?”

John visually assessed the man’s injuries, trying not to linger on his peculiar eyes. John shook his head. “Nothing broken. But that'll hurt for a while.”

The man smiled ruefully, then turned to spit out the last traces of blood. “Hardly the worst thrashing I’ve had.”

“I’ve seen my share of bar brawls,” John said. “You let him land that first punch.”

“Simple psychology,” the man answered, straightening his clothes and smoothing back his hair, taming the curls that had sprung loose. “He can brag about that one blow, and he’ll be less likely to seek further revenge.”

One corner of John’s mouth turned up. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

The man dusted off the sleeves of his jacket with long fingers. “I have my share of enemies,” he said casually. “Now if you don’t mind, Captain, I’ll be on my way.”

John narrowed his eyes at the man. “Hang on, who said anything about captain?”

“Oh, it’s written all over you, your military career, the way you speak and carry yourself. Retired medic, served in India, no doubt. You used to live in London, judging by your accent, although you’ve been in America for several years. Divorced or widowed, but you still wear a ring. Not sentiment -- practicality. It’s the most valuable thing you possess apart from your horse.” He paused, considering something for a moment. “Not quite sure how you ended up here, though.”

John stared at him, his mouth agape. “That’s… bloody amazing.”

“Is it? I thought it rather obvious.” The man turned and began walking away down the street.

John watched him leave, feeling dazed, wanting to know more. “Who the hell are you?” John finally called after him.

The man half-turned, still walking. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he answered, then turned away again with a wave of his battered, elegant hand.


	2. Chapter 2

John spent the rest of the afternoon running errands, mulling over his encounter with the decidedly odd Mr. Holmes. He’d never met anyone quite like him, and it was vexing how easily the stranger had deciphered everything about him. Almost everything.

Although it was intriguing, it wasn’t likely he’d ever run into him again, John reasoned, so he chalked it up as a curious incident.

On the spur of the moment, John decided to duck into the barber for a proper shave and haircut, letting himself relax under the hot towel, closing his eyes as the straight-edge razor trailed along his jawline.

He stepped outside again feeling clear-headed and consulted his pocket watch. He was startled to find that it was so late. He wouldn’t make it home before nightfall. John looked out toward the mountains spiking the horizon and found he didn’t like the look of the dark storm clouds gathering in the west. He fingered the few remaining bills in his pocket, resigned to spending the night in town. His finances had dwindled significantly over the past two years. Maybe he'd have to pawn his ring soon...

He settled Bluebell and his purchases at the stable, then made his way to the boarding house where he often stayed. He rapped at the door, soon saw the frilly curtain twitch as the proprietor peeked through the window that looked out onto the porch.

The door swung open and John was greeted with open arms. “Doctor Watson! How nice to see you!”

He learned forward to peck a powdered cheek above a lacy collar. “Nice to see you, too, Mrs. Hudson. How’s the hip?”

“Oh, you know, I have good days and bad days,” she fussed with a towel, wiping flour from her hands. “You look well. A bit thin, though. Are you eating enough out there all alone?”

“I’m fine, really. But I’m running later than I expected. Any chance you have a spare room for tonight?”

“There’s one upstairs, right at the end of the hall, if you want it.”

“That’d be perfect, thanks.”

“Why don’t you go on up and have a wash? Last room on the left, the one with green flowered wallpaper. Supper will be ready in two ticks.” She patted John’s arm and bustled back to the kitchen.

John smiled after her, then mounted the stairs. He found the room, then poured some water into the wash basin from the pitcher. As he rinsed his hands, he examined his reflection in the oval looking glass, turning his head side to side, evaluating the new hair cut.

“So you shaved it off, then.”

John jumped, nearly tipping over the china basin. “Most people knock,” he said gruffly, trying to cover how jangly his nerves suddenly felt at the sound of that voice. He met the pale gaze of the man slouched against the door frame. “Mr. Holmes. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“There are a limited number of lodging options available, so not much of a coincidence, Doctor Watson.” He lazily circled an index finger around his own jaw. “Suits you better, clean shaven.”

John frowned, slightly irked at the remark and the use of his name. He must have overheard Mrs. Hudson greet him at the door. He peered over Holmes’ shoulder and into the room across the hall where he could see several valises and clothing strewn about the room. “Settling in a for a long stay?”

“I’m not sure yet. Depends on the wildflowers.” With that he pushed himself away from the door and vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

John furrowed his brow, beginning to suspect Holmes was a madman. He shook his head, then headed downstairs, looking forward to Mrs. Hudson’s delicious cooking.

****************

John was seated at a table with a young couple heading to California. They were pleasant enough company, but John’s gaze kept wandering across the dining room to a certain sharp profile. Holmes looked slightly pained, trapped across the table from Mrs. Smith, a longtime boarder, and Miss Hooper, a young boarder who worked at the chemist shop. Mrs. Smith was partially deaf, her voice carrying across the room at an elevated volume.

“You’re an artist! How marvelous!”

John’s ears perked up, picked out the words “botanical illustrations.” So that’s what Holmes must have meant by wildflowers…

John could barely focus on the conversation at his own table, his mind busy trying to puzzle out the odd jumble of information he’d gleaned about Sherlock Holmes. He glanced up, noticed Miss Hooper smiling shyly at Holmes, apparently unable to take her eyes off of him. He was a strikingly good-looking man, any idiot could see that.

“Doctor Watson?”

John snapped back to attention, blinked at the young man seated across the table.

“I was asking how many head of cattle you raised,” the young man repeated.

“Oh, none, myself. I rent out the pasture to a neighbor."

“Then you must be busy with patients,” the wife filled in.

“Not really… I don’t have a formal practice here. Just the occasional case, neighbors mostly.” He’d delivered a baby last winter, stitched up a laborer’s hand, treated a few fevers. He declined to mention the occasional bullet wounds and stabbings he sewed up as well, no questions asked. The payments were sporadic, meager, ranging from a few coins to blackberry preserves or a cured ham. He wasn’t interested in being a doctor full-time, but he didn’t turn people away who asked for help, either.

The young wife smiled politely. “A true gentleman farmer, then.”

“Right,” John agreed, not entirely convinced a horse and a few chickens constituted a farm. He didn’t want to tell her about his writing that provided another source of inconsistent income, or that he often spent entire days reading or riding up into the mountains, happy to be alone and free of responsibility.

It was a relief when dinner ended and he could escape to the back porch for some solitude and a glass of whiskey.

Except that someone had already beaten him there, judging by the tobacco smoke that scented the evening air. He sighed. Holmes was leaning against the railing, gazing off into the distance with a hundred-mile stare.

John hesitated, undecided if he should stay or go. Holmes’ eyes slowly settled on him, seeming to look through him, then slid away again.

“I won’t be long. Almost finished with this.” Holmes held up his cigarette. “Then I’ll go.”

John tapped his finger along the top of his glass, curiosity getting the better of him. “I’d take one of those, if you don’t mind.” He leaned against the railing, watched as the other man withdrew an expensive silver case from his pocket. John noticed the engraved monogram: W.S.S.H. Holmes opened the lid and held out the case, letting John choose a cigarette. They were hand-rolled neatly, fresh.

Holmes struck a match and John bent into the cup of his hand, noting the odd contrast of bruised knuckles and well-groomed nails. John pulled back, exhaled, watching the cigarette dangle from Holmes’ lips as he replaced the case in his pocket.

“I can’t figure you out, Mr. Holmes,” John finally said. “Are you a boxer, a gambler, or a painter?”

Holmes smiled. “Yes.” He knocked ash into the rose bushes beneath the porch. “And call me Sherlock.”

John's eyebrows went up a fraction, surprised at the permission for informality. “John,” he allowed in return, holding out his palm. They shook hands, each assessing the other. Lightning miles away streaked across the darkening horizon, a storm rolling toward them. Their grip loosened, fingers slipped past fingers, the touch leaving an electric impression on John’s skin.

Sherlock took a final long draw from his cigarette, then dropped it to the porch boards, crushing it under the heel of his boot.

“To answer your question, I’m a chemist by training, an amateur botanist thanks to my father’s influence, and a decent artist thanks to my mother’s,” Sherlock divulged, stretching his neck up to the inky sky. “I studied boxing, fencing, and the violin, discovered a talent for cards early on, and now I make my way in the world with my wits, skill, and occasional luck.”

Although the words were flippant, John heard a note of bitterness in Sherlock’s tone. He asked the next question carefully. “And what brought you here?”

Sherlock paused, then answered. "Happenstance. It was the farthest west I could afford to travel by train.” He shrugged. “I need a place to work and a temporary address where my publisher can send my next check.”

“Publisher?” John repeated.

“Of my illustrations. ‘Flora of the American West.’ Keeps me from starving until I'm permitted to return to London.”

London. They fell silent, and John crushed out his cigarette, flicked the butt into the darkness. “Why can’t you go home?” he finally asked.

Sherlock’s eyes slid back to John’s face. “Why can’t _you?”_

John's shoulders tensed. He didn’t answer, lifting the whiskey to his lips instead. Lightning zigzagged across the sky again, this time followed by a deep rumble that vibrated through the ground.

“Everyone has secrets out here, don’t they?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, his voice low. He took a step closer, their bodies within inches of each other, and slipped the whiskey from John’s hand. Brazenly holding John’s gaze, he took a slow swallow, licked his lips, then leaned forward to set the glass on the railing. He lingered, his outstretched arm nearly brushing against John’s.

John couldn’t move, transfixed by Sherlock’s inexplicable actions and the proximity of his lean body. A breeze sprang up, bringing with it the scent of approaching rain. Someone above them closed a window with a rough rasp of wood against the frame.

John stared at the purple mark on Sherlock’s cheek, then his eyes dropped to the fullness of his mouth.

Sherlock stirred, then moved away, a whisper of fabric, the edge of a fingertip skimming John’s wrist.

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

John forgot to breathe for several seconds after Sherlock left, then he inhaled sharply, his head spinning. He downed the whiskey in one mouthful and clutched the empty glass, willing the flush on his cheeks and heat in his belly to recede.

The knowing intimacy of Sherlock’s gesture, his uncalled for closeness had stirred something visceral within John. But surely it didn’t mean anything. Sherlock was clearly eccentric, unpredictable. More than a little bit dangerous.

John exhaled, forbade himself to go back inside knowing what temptation lay upstairs across the hall from his room. He would wait awhile longer, wait for the rain to sweep by and cool the landscape.

Upstairs a single lamp burned in a window for several long minutes, then was extinguished.


	3. Chapter 3

John slept poorly and stumbled downstairs the next morning in search of coffee. Before entering the dining room, he steeled himself, wondering what to say to Sherlock if he was there.

He needn’t have worried. His eyes fell on Sherlock and Molly Hooper seated at a table in the corner. Miss Hooper was blushing, pressing her mouth against her hand, stifling a giggle.

John walked numbly to the sideboard, picked up a cup and saucer, and poured himself coffee. From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock turn his head to glance at him, his expression inscrutable. Then he leaned in closer to Miss Hooper and said something that caused her to lower her eyes and blush even more furiously. It was as if the conversation on the porch last night had never happened.

So that was his game, John realized with a sinking sensation. Charm everyone, flirt and flatter his way into whatever he might want. John chose a seat on the opposite side of the room and sat with his back to them, kicking himself for being foolish. John had run across people like him before, manipulators who wheedled themselves into your trust only to break it for their own personal gain. It stung that he had honed in on John like that...

“Good morning, Doctor Watson!” Mrs. Hudson trilled, popping in with a plate of sausage, eggs, and toast for John. She stood chatting about the weather and town gossip, John only half listening as he stabbed and sliced the sausage with his fork and knife.

"Oh, did you see the lovely watercolor Mr. Holmes gave me?" Mrs. Hudson flitted to another table and picked up a thick sheet of paper. "I was admiring his work this morning and he handed it right to me. Such lovely flowers, morning glories. I told him I really couldn't accept such a nice gift, but he said it was just for practice. Can you imagine? I can’t even draw a straight line!"

John glanced at the painting, indigo blooms twining up the paper in a pleasing composition.

"It's very nice," John agreed coolly. He imagined he could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into his head.

“It’s really nothing.” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly quite close behind him. “I’m pleased you like it. Have a good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Doctor Watson.”

John felt the tension in the room fade as soon as Sherlock departed. He was angry, now convinced that Sherlock was trying to work his way into Mrs. Hudson’s good graces as well. John disliked deception and manipulation, but an idea was taking root in his mind.

Sherlock needed a place to work and paint. John needed money. If Sherlock wanted to use everyone in town to his advantage, then he would feel no guilt about using him in return.

 

***************

John took a deep breath and knocked sharply on Sherlock’s door. Sherlock answered it in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his face neutral.

“I have a proposition for you, Holmes,” John announced, cutting straight to the chase.

Sherlock’s expression shifted to mild surprise. “And what might that be?”

"I know a place suitable for your work. It's in the foothills, a few hours' ride from here. There's open land and some patches of woods, all of which will be bursting with wildflowers in a week or two. The blooms change throughout the season and depending on the elevation. It’s isolated, free from distractions.”

Sherlock crossed his arms as he listened. "And just where would I sleep?"

John's throat tightened at the question, but he pressed on. "There's a cabin. Nothing fancy, but dry and comfortable enough."

Sherlock toyed with his watch fob as he considered the offer. "And you're the owner of this cabin?"

"It sits on my property."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How much will this cost?"

John was prepared to name an amount and they negotiated a fee to be paid by the week, agreeing to split additional costs for food and other supplies.

"Fine, then," John summarized. "I need to return home today. You can make arrangements with the stable to have your things sent out at your convenience. They know where I live."

He turned away to leave, but turned back again with another thought. "And you'd better find yourself a good horse."

 

*************

Five days later, John heard the rattle of a wagon as it approached from the east. He tucked away his pen and paper and went to the porch, waiting to see if it was his new tenant or a potential patient.

His question was soon answered when he saw the handsome sorrel mustang trotting ahead of the wagon, the horse ridden with ease by Mr. Holmes. Holmes. Sherlock. John wasn’t sure what to call him at this point.

John waited as Sherlock drew even with the porch and removed his black soft-brimmed hat, grinning. “Beautiful day for a ride,” Sherlock said, clearly exhilarated by the sun and scenery.

John refused to be drawn in by his enthusiasm. “Beautiful horse,” John commented dryly, thinking how Bluebell paled against this magnificent creature with a deep red coat and gold mane.

“Isn’t he grand?” Sherlock agreed, patting the horse’s neck. “His name is Redbeard. I won him. Bit of a close call, actually.”

John couldn’t imagine what Sherlock had staked in a bet that would equal this horse. He decided he didn’t really want to know. Sherlock looked at John’s home, a simple, white clapboard house with a porch that ran along one side. It was tidy, framed by lilac and hydrangea bushes, a small garden plot along the side, a simple chicken coop set farther back by a modest barn.

“Did you build all this?” Sherlock asked.

John looked around him as if seeing it again for the first time. “No, I bought it from the family who used to live here. They made some ill-advised investments and had to sell.”

Just then the wagon driver, a sullen young man John recognized from the stables, walked up and jabbed a thumb at his cargo. “Where d’you want all this?”

John led them a quarter mile on to the cabin nestled near a small grove of aspen trees. He had spent a day clearing out leaves and cobwebs, sweeping the pine plank floor, wiping clean the two wavy glass windows, and stacking firewood by the door. John sometimes let the cabin out to hunters in the fall, but it had gone unoccupied for several months.

Sherlock now entered the cabin behind John and glanced around. It had a table and two chairs, an iron frame bed covered with simple wool blankets, a dry sink, basic dishes, kerosene lamps, and a stone fireplace. Sherlock circled around the room, peered through the windows.

“The light’s good,” he pronounced. “This will do fine.”

“You can stable your horse in the barn,” John said as the sullen boy dragged in the valises and several large trunks. “Privy’s out back. There’s a stream that cuts through about 20 yards north, or there’s the pump up by the house for water.”

Sherlock nodded, still looking through the windows at the red-hued hills dotted with pines and rocky outcrops that rose up into the snow-capped mountains. “Astounding,” he simply said.

“If that’ll be all, I’ll be going now,” the wagon driver said, clearly impatient to return to town. Sherlock paid him, and he was off, the rattle and squeak of wheels soon fading.

John withdrew to the doorway, suddenly feeling uncertain, wondering if he was going to regret this decision. It was for the money, he reminded himself. Just business. "Right. I’ll let you settle in. I’ll be up at the house if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded vaguely again, lost in his own thoughts as he shrugged off his topcoat, draped it over a chair, and began pulling out pencils and paintbrushes from a box.


	4. Chapter 4

John did not speak to Sherlock until two days later. He had seen him leaving the barn late one evening, could see the smoke rising from the cabin’s chimney in the chill of the early morning. He knew he was there, close by, his presence a strange pull that John resisted.

John had just settled on the porch with a cup of strong coffee when he spied Sherlock approaching the house on foot, a saddle bag thrown over his shoulder. He stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the house. “What are you doing today?” he asked John without so much as a good morning.

John took a leisurely sip of coffee. “It depends. Why?”

“I need you as a guide. I want to ride out farther, but I’d rather not get shot by a rancher thinking I’m a poacher.”

“That would be inconvenient,” John agreed with more than a trace of sarcasm. He took another sip, considering the pros and cons of riding out with Sherlock. He had meant to fix a few loose boards on the barn, but that could wait one more day. And Bluebell could use some exercise. “Let me finish my coffee and gather a few things, then we can go.”

A half hour later they were riding up into the grassy hills, wending their way around scrub oak and juniper bushes. The air was clear and crisp, the sky sapphire blue.

They fell into an easy pace, and John finally felt free to converse. “Is the cabin satisfactory?”

“Perfectly adequate. Although I can’t say that I’m used to it being so quiet at night.”

John laughed. “Wait until you hear the coyotes. They’re not so quiet.”

They rode on, Sherlock pausing every now and then to examine the needles of a pine tree or bud of a wildflower, occasionally scribbling down a note on a small pad of paper he kept in his pocket.

“How high up are we?” he asked at one point.

John squinted, making his best guess. “About 7,000 or 8,000 feet. Those peaks --” he pointed to the line of craggy mountains far above them, “-- are about 14,000 feet high. Not on our agenda today, I’m afraid.”

They rode several hours more, Sherlock peppering him with questions about plants and wildlife and soil, John answering as best as he could. At one point he sighed heavily when Sherlock asked about a small pale flower. “I've no bloody idea. It’s just a purple flower.”

“Lilac,” Sherlock sniffed, looking a bit offended. He jotted down a note then tucked away the paper, apparently sensing John’s fatigue with flora. “Exactly how long have you lived here?"

“Almost three years. A year in Baltimore before that.”

“I was there once,” Sherlock mused. “After my aunt threw me out.”

John shot him a questioning glance. “Pardon?”

Sherlock remained silent for a few moments, then spoke. “I was sent to live with my aunt in New York last year after an… indiscretion. I’m not to return to London until certain matters are resolved.”

John glanced at Sherlock, wondering what he'd done to be exiled. Gambling debt? Drugs? An illicit affair?

“Discretion not being my strong suit,” Sherlock continued, “I encountered some additional trouble while in New York. My aunt demanded I leave before I sullied our family name any further. My dear older brother informed me by letter that I’m cut off until I prove myself, and I quote, ‘a responsible and mature adult with sound moral and fiscal principles.’”

John pulled a face, uncertain he knew anyone who could meet that standard.

Sherlock let out a breath. “And so there was Boston and Baltimore, Cincinnati and Chicago… I can’t remember them all.”

“And you’ve been surviving by playing cards?”

“That, and my art… Someday I’ll earn enough to go back.”

They were both quiet for a few minutes, and then John knew the question he dreaded was coming.

“And so, Doctor,” Sherlock cleared his throat, turning the focus away from himself. “Your wife… did she live here with you?”

“No,” John answered curtly. “She died before I left London.” He could feel Sherlock scrutinizing him.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said with sincerity.

“Don’t be,” John said, then abruptly changed the subject. “There’s a stream up ahead. Let’s water the horses then turn back.” He spurred Bluebell forward, leaving Sherlock to think what he wanted.

 

******************

They returned down the mountain slope, stopping in the late afternoon by a section of river that formed a natural pool. They dismounted, and John tipped back his canteen of water, taking a deep swallow. Sherlock wandered off with a sketch pad while John found a shady spot by a smooth-faced boulder to wait. He leaned back against the rock and pulled out a book of poems by Walt Whitman that he had borrowed from Mrs. Hudson.

“It’s quite impassioned,” she had whispered, pressing it into his hand like a secret.

He now read a passage, amazed at the language.

_The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation,_   
_it is odorless,_   
_It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,_   
_I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and_   
_naked,_   
_I am mad for it to be in contact with me._

_The smoke of my own breath,_   
_Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and_   
_vine_   
_My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing_   
_of blood and air through my lungs._

John lowered the book to his lap, dazed by the words, the heat, the droning of a bee, the sight of Sherlock seated in the grass bent over his paper, white shirt sleeves rolled up, bareheaded, the nape of his neck browned by the sun.

John closed his eyes, an ache forming at the base of his throat. He remained motionless, willing it to disappear, letting himself drift away from the present and the past.

Nearly an hour later, he woke with a start when Bluebell nuzzled his shoulder. He reached up sleepily to stroke her velvety nose, then pushed her gently away as he shifted his back against the hard rock. It took him a moment to take in his surroundings, to remember the book that had slipped to the ground -- and then his eyes landed on Sherlock.

He was standing at the edge of the river, naked, every curve of muscle in his back and legs and buttocks highlighted in the golden hue of the lowering sun. He slipped into the pool of water, bobbing above the surface for a few moments before ducking under entirely, popping back up on the far side, shaking the water from his face. John gazed at him from his spot in the shadows, watching him swim and dive and finally climb to the rocks lining the bank.

John had seen countless bodies, of course. But so often they were ravaged by wounds, disease, old age. The strength and beauty of Sherlock’s lithe frame was a pleasure to behold.

Sherlock lay atop a flat boulder, his face turned up to the sun. John knew how it would feel to lie there, the trapped heat of the stone seeping into relaxed muscles, the cool breeze skimming over bare skin.

John bit his lip and blood rushed to his groin as Sherlock stretched, letting his arms fall behind his head, his soft prick resting against his thigh. He was the most unabashedly sensual creature John had ever encountered. Did he know that John was watching? Did he know what desires he was raking up in him?

As if in a dream, John stood and walked toward Sherlock. He peeled off his clothes, dipped into the cold water, then climbed up to join him, still dripping, slowly covering Sherlock’s mouth with his own, his palm curling around his warm cock.

John imagined it clearly, vividly, but could not find the courage to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from Walt Whitman’s "Song of Myself"


	5. Chapter 5

That night as he lay undressed in bed, the day’s heat still palpable, John was tormented by thoughts of Sherlock. It defied all logic, all common sense, but John longed for him in a way that he could barely understand. It cut deep; a yearning he’d never felt before.

But Sherlock was trouble. A manipulator. Impulsive. Reckless. Exiled. And the way he had leaned in toward Molly Hooper, the way she had blushed… it bothered John.

It would be a terrible mistake.

John turned over and punched his pillow. Sleep would not come. He listened to the crickets chirping, the eerie hooting of an owl. Then he heard the unmistakable creak of hinges. Someone had opened the door to the barn.

John immediately rolled to his feet, slipped on his trousers and shirt, not bothering to button it. He’d be damned if a horse thief tried to take Bluebell. He tucked his pistol into the back of his waistband and crept barefoot through the house, out the door, crossing swiftly to the barn.

He peered around the door, saw a figure moving close to Redbeard, a low-burning lamp set on the floor throwing elongated shadows across the horse stalls. John took a breath, reached around his back to draw his gun, then exhaled sharply. _“Shit,”_ he hissed, now recognizing the intruder. “Holmes, you idiot! I could have shot you.”

Sherlock stepped into full view, his hand resting beneath Redbeard’s mane. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What are you doing here?” John snapped, immediately regretting his peevish tone.

“I was checking on Redbeard. I didn’t like the way he was favoring his left foreleg this afternoon.”

John rubbed his eyes. He was tired, the smell of horses and hay and night dew mixing around him. “It could be a bruise. Give him some rest for a few days. Maybe soak the hoof tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded, then ran his hand down Redbeard’s forehead to his muzzle. ”Won’t be going into town for a few days, then,” he said offhandedly, maybe speaking to the horse. “Miss Hooper will be disappointed.”

John’s stomach sank. “You’re seeing Miss Hooper?”

“When I have a chance, I will.”

John tilted his head stiffly, needing clarification. “You’re… courting Miss Hooper?”

Sherlock turned to look at him, his face a picture of confusion, then sudden understanding. He let out a rich laugh that startled both horses. “Oh, God, no. No!”

John burned with humiliation, which soon boiled over into anger. “I saw you -- _flirting_ with her -- at breakfast that morning. She was blushing -- you were whispering to her across the table!”

“I was teasing her!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Sheriff Lestrand is obviously smitten with her and she with him, but they're both too tongue-tied to do anything about it. I was just conspiring with her, having a bit of fun.”

“It’s Lestrade,” John muttered through clenched teeth.

Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing the correction. “I don’t fancy Miss Hooper, she’s just… kind. Not vapid like most people. I promised I’d take her out for a stroll, make sure that the sheriff noticed… It might spur him into action.”

John scoffed in disbelief. “You -- playing cupid?”

Sherlock cast a steely eye on him, suddenly turning serious. “Why not? They’ll never do anything left to their own devices. Life’s too bloody short to be so afraid of everything, don’t you think?” He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation. “My God, you people are so frightened of taking a risk and actually _feeling_ something!”

The words landed like a blow directly on John’s sternum, but Sherlock wasn’t finished yet. “Why not say what you’re really thinking? Why smile through every nicety when you hate something? Fuck that.”

He turned to John, advancing as he spoke. ”Why not do what you want, take what you want? Why not bet it all, drink the best whiskey, ride a fine horse, kiss in the dark, screw all night?” His eyes bored into John’s, his voice deepening. “When’s the last time you really felt something, Doctor?”

John swallowed, unable to answer. It was true; he had cut himself off from emotional entanglements of any kind. He lived alone, carving out a spartan, solitary life. But he wasn’t completely numb.

"You deny yourself even simple pleasures…” Sherlock now stood quite near, dropping his gaze to John’s chest where his shirt lay open. “You could have come swimming with me today…” He hovered nearer, his voice like smoky honey. “You know how to swim, don’t you? I could teach you, if you’re not sure. Just a few simple strokes… arms, legs, breath...”

“Holmes--” John’s voice came out in a rasp, a caution.

Sherlock moved even closer, his cheekbones hollowed by shadows, the heat of their bodies radiating between them. "What are you feeling, John?" Sherlock murmured tauntingly.

John’s heart was throbbing, panicky, starved. His fingers flexed near Sherlock’s chest, not knowing whether to push or grasp. His body decided for him, his mouth tilting up to accept a whisper of contact from Sherlock's lips.

John’s fingertips pressed just above Sherlock's heart, partially a faint response of alarm, more fully a communication of the wish for Sherlock to increase the pressure of his mouth against his own. John closed his eyes as Sherlock's hand curved under his jaw, an impossibly long thumb tracing across his bottom lip. An intimately warm mouth descended, gently drawing in that same lip, releasing it, shifting and claiming it again.

John inhaled at the luxurious sensation, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt to pull him closer, his other hand clasping the back of Sherlock's neck. John kissed him hard in return, awakening famished from a long slumber.

Sherlock’s hand slipped beneath John’s shirt, slid down his ribs, around his waist, settled flat against the small of his back, just above the grip of the forgotten pistol.

John heard their heavy breathing, felt the grit of the dirt floor stinging his bare feet, the grind of their hips, desperate mouths and greedy hands roving, tasting and touching one another.

 _You should stop now,_ a voice in John’s head warned him. _It’s too risky. If anyone found out, it would ruin you. You can’t lose everything again. He won’t stay, anyway._

John suddenly pulled back, pushed Sherlock’s arms away. “I can’t…” he gasped. “I can’t do this.”

“John--” Sherlock reached out for him, shocked, but didn’t touch him.

“Please,” John put his hands up defensively. “This was a mistake.”

Sherlock stepped back, his breath shallow. He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

They looked at each other, tense, John willing Sherlock to understand why this couldn’t happen. Sherlock’s expression shifted from pleading to frustrated, finally ending in a spark of anger. He ran a hand agitatedly through his hair, about to say something, but then bit back the words. He gave John a long, dark look, then turned and left the barn, saying nothing.

John bent his head, staring at his feet, already filled with regret. He’d felt something just now, something intense and dangerous and exhilarating.

But it was playing with fire. He knew he had to extinguish it before it burned out what was left of his heart.


	6. Chapter 6

For the next several weeks they studiously avoided each other, communicating through hastily scrawled notes slid under doors.

_The week’s payment is in the tin on the table._  
_Need coffee and sugar. Also kerosene._  
_Will be gone until Thursday._

If they were unlucky enough to make eye contact, they would offer a slight nod then look away. Once, when John was splitting wood, Sherlock rode by, his gaze hard as he took in John’s bare chest, the sweat glistening on his sun-darkened skin. John knew Sherlocks’ eyes had immediately picked out the pale scar marring his shoulder. His hand reflexively touched the mark as he watched Sherlock ride away.

One morning when John observed Sherlock riding out to sketch, he took the opportunity to deliver the supplies he’d brought back from town the day before. John tested the knob to the cabin door, found that it was open. He entered, planning to drop off the box of supplies and a few letters as quickly as possible. He crossed to the dry sink and set down the box, but then his attention fell to the many sheets of paper spread on the table and bed. Sherlock had clearly delved into his work with earnest.

John peered closer, astonished at the beautiful watercolors of spring flowers -- purple larkspur, scarlet paint brush, silvery lupine. The names and parts of the flowers were labeled in a neat script. On the bed were several lively sketches of wildlife. A jack rabbit, a ground squirrel, a hawk. Another paper revealed several unmistakable images of Redbeard, and there, in the corner, even Bluebell. John couldn’t help but smile.

He carefully lifted sheet after sheet, admiring pictures of pines, grasses, more flowers. Then his hand stilled, and his heart skipped a bit. There was a sketch of a man sleeping, his back against a rock, a book laid open on his lap, his face unguarded, long lashes closed against his cheeks. It was him. Sherlock had sketched him, that day at the river.

John carefully replaced the paper, quietly left the cabin, trying not to feel anything.

 

************  
_Several days later_

John was looking forward to coming home, relaxing with a glass of something strong, and stretching the knots out of his neck. He’d spent most of the day setting the broken leg of a seven-year-old girl who had jumped from the hayloft to the ground on a dare from her older brother. Foolish as it was, he had to give her credit for actually doing it.

It was already July, John mused, noting how light it was even though it was past 8 at night. Another summer slipping by.

As he approached the house, he could see someone sitting on the porch steps, waiting. John sighed, but then peered closer. It was Sherlock.

John swung off of Bluebell, looped her reins over the porch railing. He assessed Sherlock in one look: another fight. A bloody bandage was wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand. His bottom lip was split.

“Who was it?” John asked. “Anderson?”

“And some of his colleagues,” Sherlock answered tiredly. “I could use your professional opinion.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Ribs. One might be broken. And maybe a quick look at the hand…?”

John sighed again, grabbed his black satchel from the back of the saddle. “Come in.” He pushed up the steps past Sherlock, directed him to sit on a chair in the kitchen. He tended to the hand first, cleaning it, checking it over carefully.

“Since you're an artist,” John muttered, winding a clean bandage around Sherlock’s knuckles. “It may be wise not to break your fucking hand in a bar fight. You’re lucky, this time.”

Sherlock said nothing, his eyes fixed on the table where John had laid out the contents of his satchel while searching for bandages and ointment.

“Would you mind putting that away?” Sherlock nodded at two glass vials and syringe on the table. “Somewhere out of sight, please.”

John followed his line of vision to the vials of morphine. He looked back at Sherlock. “Why?”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I studied chemistry, remember? Sometimes too closely for my own good.”

John tied off the bandage, his mouth drawn in a tight line. “Is that what happened? Why you were sent away?”

“In part... And it’s what got me banished from New York. Although I suppose any respectable aunt would be appalled by her nephew's arrest in an opium den."

John wasn't convinced Sherlock was as cavalier about it as his tone suggested. John stayed silent as he swept the bottles and syringe back into the bag. He focused on the next task.

"Ribs."

Sherlock looked up at him, seeming a bit unnerved by John’s lack of commentary. His fingers worked loose the buttons of his shirt as he talked. "I'm incorrigible, according to my brother. But I never intend--" he stopped, suddenly seeming defeated, running through some oft-repeated argument he never won. He freed the last buttons of his shirt, his eyes trained on the floor. "I'm sorry for troubling you with this."

John fussed unnecessarily with the towel and bowl of water he'd used to clean Sherlock's hand. "We all do things we regret."

Sherlock stood and shrugged off his shirt, wincing as he moved. John tried not to dwell on his long neck, the sparse dark hair on his chest, his tanned skin that had no stark line ending in white anywhere near his narrow hipbones. Clearly, he'd been lying nude in the sun more than once. John concentrated on the large purple bruise on Sherlock's right side.

John cleared his throat. "May I?" He held out his hands, indicated Sherlock's side.

Sherlock nodded, watching carefully as John gently pressed his fingertips against the bruise and surrounding area, asking about the presence and intensity of pain.

John finally dropped his hands away. "I can’t be certain, but I don't believe there are any breaks. Avoid anything strenuous and let it heal. And stay out of town." John tried to keep his voice light, but inside he was quaking, the nearness of Sherlock's body bringing back vivid memories of their heated kiss in the barn. He watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, his eyes slowly roving up to his swollen lip.

"I’ll tell you the other reason I was sent away," Sherlock said quietly as he pulled his shirt back over his shoulders. "If you want to know."

John nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I had a lover. We were discovered in a rather compromising situation." He paused, gauging John’s reaction. "All of which was complicated by the fact that my lover was… is heir to a fortune, the son of a lord.” He paused again, tracking John’s face. “My brother is rather high up in the government… It simply couldn’t become known, of course. It would tarnish our families’ names. So it was agreed that I would be sent to America and Victor to India. Several oceans between us would prevent any further contact.”

John shifted his eyes back to his satchel, taking in everything he’d just been told.

Sherlock leaned forward. “I know who I am, John. What I am. I make no apologies for that. And I know that you have a reputation to uphold. I’ll stay away from you, you needn't worry. I'll be leaving in autumn if I can.” He began to rebutton his shirt.

John couldn't meet his eyes. “Where will you go?”

“I don't know. San Francisco, or maybe back to Chicago. Somewhere with steady illustration work.”

John looked at his own hands, studying the tendons. There was one thing he had to know.

"Did you love him?"

Sherlock seemed surprised by the question, but he gave it careful consideration. “I think I loved what we could do to each other. There was no need for pretending.” His fingers lingered over a button. “Did you love your wife?"

John turned his head to meet Sherlock's gaze "I wanted to. But she wasn't who I thought she was."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, but didn't press the subject. "Thank you,” he finally said, hesitating for several beats, long enough to make John’s pulse race, wanting him not to leave. But Sherlock pulled away and walked to the door. He glanced back once more at the black bag on the table. “Hide the morphine. Just to be safe." Then he left.

***********

John poured himself a large glass of whiskey once Sherlock was gone. He stared at the wall, feeling raw and numb at the same time.

He finally stripped off his clothes, climbed into bed with a book to try to distract his jumbled mind. He had grabbed the Whitman, flipped it open to a new page, and read several stanzas. And then he came to another evocative passage:

_I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,_  
_How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over_  
_upon me,_  
_And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your_  
_tongue to my bare-stript heart,_  
_And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d until you held my feet._

John let his head sink back against the bedframe, consumed by the image, gradually admitting the truth to himself. He wanted Sherlock: hot breath, hard bones, bare back, veined cock, splayed legs, wet tongue licking, sharp teeth biting. Forbidden fruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from Walt Whitman’s "Song of Myself"
> 
> Walt Whitman's poetry blows my mind, by the way. I can't believe "Song of Myself" was first written in 1856 (he revised and renamed it numerous times.) Some of the passages are so sensual. I'm not a Whitman scholar by any means, but I find them so amazing for their time. 
> 
> Thanks for reading this far!


	7. Chapter 7

The cicadas were singing out the heat of the day as the sun set and John paced along his porch, wavering on the cusp of a decision for the thousandth time. He was debating whether or not he should go visit Sherlock and check on his injuries. It’d been four days since he’d last seen him.

John finally made up his mind. He would go. He tucked a book under his arm at the last minute and walked to the cabin.

John rapped on the door with more confidence than he felt. Sherlock opened it soon after, his sleeves pushed up, a cup in one hand. His hair was unruly, in need of a trim. He lifted an eyebrow in question.

“I… I thought I’d stop by,” John stammered. “See how you’re getting on.”

Sherlock smiled slowly without answering. He pushed the door open wider before disappearing inside, which John took as an invitation to enter.

“Bourbon?” Sherlock offered. “It’s not what I’d call smooth...”

“Yes, please.” John looked around as Sherlock poured another cup. He had been painting, the brushes and paint scattered on the table. John stole a glance at the illustration he was working on. A yellow flower he recognized. Some sort of daisy, maybe.

John took the cup Sherlock held out, their fingers briefly touching. “How’s it feeling, the bruise?” John asked.

“Still sore. Makes it difficult to sleep. Same for the hand, although I can almost forget about it when I’m working.”

John suddenly felt foolish. “If I’m interrupting, I can go --”

“No, stay. I was just finishing up. The light’s fading, anyway.”

John watched him clean the brushes and tidy up the table. “I thought you might like to borrow a book,” John said, breaking the silence. He placed it on the edge of the table. “In case you were bored... something to read.”

Sherlock picked it up, the book small in his large hands. “Ah yes, I’ve heard of Whitman. You’ve read it?”

“Most of it.”

Sherlock placed the book on the table again. “Thank you,” he said, then took another drink.

John looked at Sherlock’s knuckles, still slightly swollen and scabbed. A faint line cut through the corner of his bottom lip, mostly healed over. That left his ribs.

John’s fingers tingled at the thought of making contact with his skin again. A flush warmed his face, his gaze settling on Sherlock's mouth. He now knew with certainty what he wanted to do, why he'd really come.

He took a breath, then took a risk. “I should check your side… see how that’s healing.”

Sherlock’s eyes rested on him, cautious. “Are you sure that’s necessary, Doctor?”

This was where John could turn back, excuse himself, make a polite exit. Or not be afraid for once. He held Sherlock’s gaze. "I'd like to see it."

Sherlock slowly set his cup down. His eyes never leaving John’s, he pulled the shirt loose from where it was tucked into his trousers, the rustle of the cotton cloth filling the small room. His fingers went to the button below the hollow of his throat, slid it through the hole. Then the next, and the next, and the next until the shirt hung open. He worked the fabric off his shoulders, pulled his arms from the sleeves, and draped it over the back of a chair.

His heart in his throat, John stepped forward, placed his fingers gently over the mottled bruise. After several moments, he laid his entire hand flat against Sherlock’s warm skin. He held it there longer than necessary, his other palm finally rising to curve around his ribs on the other side.

He breathed in, out, gathering courage, then slowly trailed both hands up to Sherlock's chest, his fingertips skimming over rosy nipples that tightened under his touch. Sherlock closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, his gaze was dark, his voice soft. “Are you sure?”

John smoothed his hands over Sherlock's torso, down to narrow hips, giving into temptation. “Yes.”

Sherlock inhaled, dipped his head to John’s neck, not quite touching him. He whispered. “Take your shirt off.”

With unsteady fingers, John worked open the buttons. Sherlock watched as he exposed one shoulder, then the other, then dropped his shirt to the same chair.

They stood facing each other, illuminated by dusky light. They reached out at the same time, palms sliding up arms, cupping shoulders, drawing each other near, a tasting of lips as hands drifted from napes to throats to jaws.

John pressed into Sherlock harder, skin to skin, finding his mouth again, wanting more. Sherlock responded, his hands moving lower to grip John’s arse, his tongue probing between John’s lips, finding traces of bourbon. Their breaths came faster, mouths on necks, the burn of stubble, fingers in hair.

Sherlock ran a thumb over the scar on John’s shoulder, dragged his lips beneath his ear. “Take everything off. I want to feel you.”

The fumbling with boots and buttons and hurried hands, pulling and pushing at each other’s clothes that pooled to the floor where they were left unheeded, the slow step back to view the other’s full nakedness.

John was throbbingly aware of his own arousal, heightened further by the sight of Sherlock’s upward curving erection. Sherlock moved toward him again, put his hands on John’s waist, their cocks jostling, crossing, taut heads nudging into bare thighs and bellies.

Sherlock’s palm wrapped around them both, his mouth grazing over John’s as his grasp tightened, stroking with a light pressure, eliciting a groan deep from John’s throat.

The touch was almost too much, causing John to dig his fingers into Sherlock's back. His pulse caught in his throat, his hands fell away as Sherlock sank to his knees in front of him, gazing deliberately into John's eyes as he took him into his mouth, full lips closing around him.

John rolled his head back as agile tongue, hard palate, soft lips untwined every thought from his mind but one: Pleasure. Pleasure of a hot mouth licking, circling, sucking, fingers gripping, tightening, working his cock.

John's fingers flexed in Sherlock's hair, his hips rocking, his mouth slack, brow furrowing as he felt himself nearing the crest, panting out breathy ohhs that built to a loud moan, a tremor of legs, a pulsating climax into the throat of an intimate stranger.

Sherlock swallowed and swallowed, lashes fluttering, one hand still curved tightly around John’s upper thigh. He finally pulled back, sinking down on his haunches. Their eyes met, chests rising and falling, stripped of language. The droning of cicadas thrummed hypnotically into the hot room, then died away.

John drew Sherlock up from the floor, led him the few steps to the bed, pulled him down to the mattress, wrapping his arms around him, claiming his mouth and body possessively.

 

***********

Hours later, after the night air had cooled, they lay in bed, John on his back, Sherlock propped on an elbow beside him, one hand idly tracing the valley of John’s breastbone.

John stretched luxuriously under the caress, then felt Sherlock's fingers run over the scar on his shoulder. He braced himself for the question.

“What happened?”

John looked away. “I got shot.” He knew that was an obvious answer, but did not care to elaborate.

Sherlock frowned slightly. “You don’t give much away, do you, Doctor Watson? I suspect you’d make an excellent poker player.”

John gave a half smile, but didn’t answer.

Sherlock’s expression turned serious. “Tell me something else then. Something about you no one else knows.”

John thought carefully, then spoke, feeling he owed him something substantial in exchange. “When I was in India, there was someone… an officer… we were involved, briefly, before he was transferred.”

Sherlock laid his hand on John’s chest. “You’ve been with men before.”

John nodded, feeling relieved to confess one secret.

“Yet you married…”

John nodded again. “She was a nurse. We met in London at St. Bart’s. She was vivacious, smart, pretty... I thought she was what I needed, someone to ground me, make a home with…” his voice trailed off. “It didn’t work out the way I imagined it would.”

Sherlock’s fingers drifted along John’s jaw. “Things rarely do.”

They fell silent, then Sherlock curved into John, sinking down to his mouth. “Do something for me,” he murmured into John's ear.

“Mmm?” John asked, kissing the side of Sherlock's throat.

“Say my name. You’ve never said my name.”

John pulled back, astounded. Surely that wasn’t true -- he’d said it so many times. But no, he realized, he hadn’t said it out loud. He had called him Holmes. Or nothing.

John now pulled Sherlock back to his mouth, sighing his name across his lips. “Sherlock...”

 

**********  
John woke, morning light filling the cabin. He turned his head, saw Sherlock lying on his side with his back to him, breathing evenly, asleep. The Whitman book was draped open over his hip, placed there before he’d drifted back to sleep, apparently.

John carefully lifted the book, his thumb holding the place where it had been open. He glanced at the poem, then read more:

 _Are you the new person drawn toward me?_  
_To begin with, take warning, I am surely far different from what_  
_you suppose;_  
_Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?_  
_Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?_  
_Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?_  
_Do you think I am trusty and faithful?_

John closed the book, a chill running down his spine. He knew little about Sherlock. He’d made mistakes before, trusting the wrong people.

His let his eyes travel around the sparse room, taking in the empty cups, the paint brushes, their white shirts draped over the chair. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe last night and today and tomorrow would be all there was to it. They had no history here. No future beyond a few summer weeks if Sherlock was leaving in the autumn.

Sherlock stirred and John turned to him, lightly covering the bruise on his side with his hand again. He pressed his hips into Sherlock’s buttocks, his cock hardening at the contact, slid his hand down past Sherlock's thigh, searching, finding, teasing, coaxing, mouthing the tender skin on his neck until sighs and moans slipped from sleepy lips and milky warmth spilled over his fingers.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from Walt Whitman’s Calamus poems: "Are You the New Person Drawn toward Me?"


	8. Chapter 8

During the next several days they went about their own work, and they traveled into town separately, cautious not to draw attention to any change in their landlord/tenant relationship. Nights often found them sharing a bed.

John’s mattress was bigger, softer, but he also loved the coziness of the cabin, the sound of the apsen leaves rustling in the night breeze.

They returned to the river one fiercely hot day, stripped off their clothes, swam in the cool water, splashing and dunking each other like schoolboys. They emerged from the water laughing, dripping, playfully wrestling until their slippery bodies urgently folded and melded into each other in the shade of the rocky banks.

They rode up into the hills once, ate dinner together some evenings, often shared a late night drink.

Bit by bit they learned details about each other, snippets of family, travels. John told him about his sister, Harriet, whom he hadn’t seen in years. That his father, also a doctor, was a heavy drinker, now in poor health. That his mother had died years before.

Sherlock had often been in trouble at school, never fit in, made too many uncanny remarks that unsettled people. “It’s simple observation and probability,” he sighed, as if it were too tiresome to explain.

His keen observations still unnerved John. One early morning, John had dressed and made coffee while Sherlock was still lounging in the cabin’s narrow bed. John picked up a book and settled back in a chair with his cup.

Sherlock was lying on his stomach, arms folded under his head, watching John. “When will you let me read some of your writing?”

John choked a bit on his coffee. “My what?” He had never told anyone about his writing.

“You write, obviously. Pens everywhere in your house, the sheafs of paper, the occasional ink stain on your cuffs. The envelopes I saw on your desk from a newspaper in Ohio and a magazine in St. Louis.”

John was speechless.

“Ahh,” Sherlock said. “You write under a pen name, I gather. What sort of stories are they?”

“Nothing of importance.” John could feel his cheeks burning. “Just… serialized stories.”

Sherlock smiled. “Adventure? Crime?”

John cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

“Pirates? I love pirate stories.”

“Stop.”

“Bengal tigers and jungles? Tropical islands… mysterious women… handsome men of easy virtue?”

John threw the book at him and Sherlock ducked his head, grinning. He rose from the bed, naked, lanky, golden-skinned, and with a deliberate slowness straddled John’s lap, his arms draping around his neck. “I could tell you some stories…”

John looked up at him, smiling despite himself. "I'm sure you could." He couldn't resist curving his hands around Sherlock's waist, just below the sinewy slope of his ribs. Sherlock's weight on his thighs was creating an insistent pressure across the front his trousers, more blood rushing to join the area as John's gaze fell to Sherlock’s bare cock hovering over his groin.

"Have you written about me?" Sherlock asked.

John's face flickered a deeper shade of red. "You? Why would I do that?"

"You're evading the question."

John bided his time, his thumbs playing over sharp hipbones, his fingers tracing the dip in Sherlock’s back, his palms sliding down to cup firm buttocks. "Not for publication,” he replied, bringing his mouth to Sherlock’s.

The coffee went cold.

 

*************  
_Five days later_

The banging on the door was loud, insistent. John bolted upright in bed, disoriented. It was dark. It took him several moments to realize he was in his own house. Sherlock rolled over next to him, pulling the sheet with him. The pounding started again, this time with a shout. “Doctor Watson! It’s urgent!”

 _Shit,_ John thought, tugging on his clothes. He shook Sherlock’s shoulder until he was awake. “Someone’s at the door,” John hissed. “Whatever you do, do not leave this room.”

He stumbled from the bedroom, pulling the door firmly closed behind him. They could not be seen together like this. They could be arrested, jailed. He took a deep breath, opened the front door to find a young man anxiously pacing the porch.

There had been an accident at his family’s ranch, his father thrown by a horse. John grabbed his satchel, followed the man outside, saddled Bluebell and rode off, haunted by the thought of _what if_. What if he hadn’t been at home? What if the man had come to the cabin to ask about the doctor's whereabouts? What if he had been seen with Sherlock at this hour?

His stomach lurched. They had to be more careful. Even out here, far from town, the wrong moment could be their downfall.

**********************

John was distant for the next week, doubting the wisdom of this affair. It was not wise. It was not sustainable. It was not possible to resist.

There were moments when he was content, happy. And there were moments he was filled with dread -- of being discovered, of Sherlock’s eventual departure. The conflicting emotions swirled in him, unresolved.

He knew it made him poor company, irritable. Sherlock kept far away for several days, sensing his unease after the night of being called to the emergency.

Sherlock finally came to the house one evening, rapping on the open door before entering. John looked up from his desk.

“May I come in?” Sherlock asked.

John leaned back in his chair. “Of course.”

Sherlock walked in, took a seat at the table. “Are you writing?”

“If you call paying bills writing, then yes.” John ran a hand through his hair, tired. His finances were marginally better, but far from secure. His gaze lingered on Sherlock. His hair was damp, an herbal sharpness of soap drifting from him.

“Mrs. Hudson sends her regards,” Sherlock said. “And she sent these along.” He placed two large blushing orange peaches on the table.

John smiled, crossed over to the table and picked up a peach. The flesh gave slightly as he pressed his thumb gently into the side. A sweet scent wafted up to him. He picked up the other one, equally ripe.

“We should go outside for this,” he told Sherlock, then walked to the porch.

Sherlock followed, confused. “Why, exactly?”

John handed him a peach. “Lean over,” he said, “and bite it.”

Sherlock looked at him skeptically.

“Trust me,” John said. “You've never had a peach like this."

Sherlock raised the fuzzy skin to his mouth, gave John one last odd look, then bit down. Juice streamed over his lips as he managed a strangled, “Oh, God… that’s amazing.”

John laughed. “I told you,” he said, taking a large bite. The sounds were obscene -- succulent, slurping, wet, their fingers covered in juice, the porch pocked with dribbles. When they had devoured the last of the fruit, John threw the pit as far away as he could while Sherlock studied the one in his hand for a few moments before tossing it away as well.

John leaned against the porch railing, was surprised when Sherlock bent down swiftly to kiss him, stinging tart and sweet.

"We can stay here at night… in case someone needs you," Sherlock offered.

John nodded, knowing it was the most prudent solution, knowing he wasn’t able to walk away from this entanglement. He touched Sherlock's chest, breaking his own rule of caution.

Sherlock lifted John’s hand. "I've missed you," he murmured, closing his mouth around John's sticky fingertips. He sucked them lightly, making John’s knees go weak.

“I think,” John breathed, "we should go inside for this.”

Locking the front door first, they made their way to the bedroom, knocking into the table, then bumping into a chair in their haste of disrobing-touching-kissing, and shut the door and curtains to their sanctuary.

Clothes discarded, they stood by the bed, the scent of peach lingering on their hands and mouths, a lovely little aphrodisiac mingled amongst hot skin and fresh soap. Sherlock lowered himself to the mattress on his belly, then, sinuous as a cat, rolled his spine, raising his haunches, the long line of his back sloping down to his head that lay turned to the side. Sherlock gazed half-lidded at John, offering himself.

Still standing, John smoothed his hands over Sherlock’s taut, raised arse, temptingly round and perfect as the peaches they had gorged on earlier. He spread the flesh now before him, his tongue sliding along the cleft, swirling, probing lightly, then stabbing deeper. He heard Sherlock’s gasps, felt him opening, could see his fingers bunching the sheets from the corner of his eye. He licked and lapped, then lightly bit one arse cheek, his hand roaming over his own hard cock.

He couldn’t wait any longer. John unearthed the jar buried in the dresser drawer, swabbed out a dollop of opaque petroleum jelly, smeared it over his cock, then turned his attention back to Sherlock, inserting one, two coated fingers.

Sherlock let out a breathy moan, his thighs almost lowering, but John pulled his hips back in a firm grasp, positioning himself behind him. He slid his cock in gradually, stroking the tight mounds of arse with his open palms, exhaling in wonderment.

“You always feel so good,” he murmured, pushing in and out, building slowly, watching Sherlock’s face shift, softening and sharpening depending on the depth and angle of his thrusts.

The muscles in Sherlock’s flanks quivered, tiring, but John tightened his grip on his hips, taking some of the strain.

“Harder,” Sherlock’s voice was a low rasp, muffled against the sheets. “Fuck me harder.”

John had discovered early on that Sherlock enjoyed a certain amount of roughness in bed, and he was happy to comply. He tugged at Sherlock’s hips, jerking him closer, pumping deeper.

"You will keep your arse up and your head down," John ordered between thrusts, sweat beading down his back and chest. _Oh Christ_ , John thought heatedly, carried away by Sherlock’s moans, the sheen across his back, the gape of his open mouth, the pounding of flesh against flesh -- he wasn't sure who was going to climax first. _Oh God, oh fuck..._ he bit his lip, digging his thumbs into Sherlock’s buttocks, seizing control.

John surged forward, knees now bent on the bed, his body partially curving over Sherlock’s, one hand pinning down the back of his neck where damp curls tangled, the other pressing into the mattress for support as he pushed into him repeatedly.

Sherlock gave a sharp cry, shuddering, and John shifted his hand from his neck to caress his shoulder, covering his back with his chest as they sank toward the mattress. John kissed Sherlock's nape, drinking in the sounds he made as he finished coming in several intense waves.

They lay there panting until John withdrew and Sherlock rolled over to face him. They stretched out alongside, kissing slowly, Sherlock’s fingers finding John’s cock, quickly teasing it back to full arousal. It didn’t take long -- some deft handwork, a nip of teeth along his neck, a stripe of tongue up to his ear -- and John’s back was arching, fingers clutching at Sherlock’s shoulders, sheets dampened further.

They fell back into the pillows, depleted, staring in a daze at the white ceiling.

“Damn,” John sighed in deep satisfaction.

“Goddamn,” Sherlock agreed, stretching out again. It was hot. The room smelled of fruit, sex, and sweat.

“Those were the best damn peaches I've ever eaten,” John added as an afterthought.

They turned to each other and grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun history fact: Vaseline petroleum jelly was patented in 1865 and by 1874 was being sold across the U.S. at the rate of one jar every minute. That’s a lot of, um, skin care.


	9. Chapter 9

The August heat was relentless, the grass brittle and dry.

John was sweating through his shirt by mid-morning just doing a few simple chores around the barn. He stroked Bluebell’s back as she stood in the shade of a tree. He wiped his forehead, then was struck by an idea. “What do you think… shall we go camping?” he asked her. Her ears swiveled and she swished her tail at flies.

He rode to a neighbor’s house to arrange for one of their boys to come by to look after the chickens and water the garden for a few days. Then he rode to the cabin where Sherlock sat outside in the shade, writing a letter.

“We’re going camping,” John announced. “We’ll ride up higher where it’s cooler and spend a few nights.”

Sherlock was eager to leave the heat and soon had packed a bedroll, the bourbon, and a few other necessities. John gathered cooking utensils, bread, coffee, hard cheese, apples, a hunting knife, and his shotgun. They could get a rabbit. He was a good shot.

They set off that afternoon, riding up into the hills. They stopped by the river, took a quick dip, and continued on, refreshed.

By evening they had climbed high enough where the temperature was much more comfortable. In a forested area of pines, aspens, and craggy rocks, they found a clearing near a small stream and set up camp, John building a small fire while Sherlock tended to the horses.

After they ate, Sherlock broke out the bourbon and a pack of well-worn cards.

“Oh, no,” John muttered when he saw Sherlock shuffling the deck.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock answered, dealing out the cards.

After losing hand after hand, John sighed, giving up. “I’m just not very lucky. Pass the bottle.”

“It’s skill more than luck,” Sherlock answered, taking a drink before handing over the bourbon. “Although you could use more of both.”

John took another long pull, the insult gradually sinking in. He kicked Sherlock none too gently with his boot. “Fuck you.”

“Mmm, yes, please,” Sherlock purred, fixing John with a sultry look, abandoning the cards.

“You really are incorrigible,” John laughed, his head spinning from the liquor as Sherlock practically crawled into his lap, tipping them both over onto the blankets in a tangle of mouths.

John was splayed on his back, Sherlock on top of him, his thighs fitted over John's hips. John slid his hands into Sherlock's hair, pulling him down hungrily, drunk on bourbon and lazy kisses. The fire burned low. Pieces of clothing disappeared in mysterious segments, John not really remembering whose hands undid what in which order.

"Did you bring it?" Sherlock asked, his breath warm against John's ear.

"In the saddle bag."

Sherlock reached out with a long arm, rummaged until he found the glass jar. He leisurely unscrewed the lid, still sitting astride John's thighs.

John watched him through half-closed eyes, felt fingers circle and slick his cock, savored the tight heat as Sherlock eased himself down, down, taking him deeper until John filled him. John wrapped his hands around Sherlock's hips, holding on as Sherlock began to slowly move up and down, his palms pressed against John's chest.

John was looking up -- up at the face of his lover, the night sky spanning behind his shoulders, his dark hair blending into the inky black sprinkled with starlight. Somehow he was also looking down -- down at their lean bodies coupling in the orange glow of the firelight, strong hips canting up, muscled round arse thrusting down, heads thrown back, mouths soft then drawn tight, teeth scraping along bottom lips, fingers clutching briefly at arms and legs, fingertips skimming across nipples, grazing the curve of a jaw.

They were free here, alone on the mountainside, free to revel in their carnality like two wild animals. John wanted to shout, wanted to convey the impossible wonder of the sensations coursing through his body -- the rough wool blanket rubbing against his back, the heat and friction surrounding his cock, Sherlock's weight pinning him to the solid earth, the scents of woodsmoke and sweet grass, the sight of corded tendons straining in Sherlock's neck, the hard planes of his abdomen flexing.

John was losing sense of where his body ended and Sherlock's began. Loud groans, grunts, sharp inhalations, God, how marvelously vocal they were being. _Fuck...fuck, God, yes_ \-- that was his own voice, rough, raspy, uncensored, urging Sherlock on -- _Christ, don't stop... Oh fuck, you're beautiful...fucking beautiful..._

They arched, John coming first with a baring of teeth, a growl, a clench and spasm of muscles. He panted, breathless, gazing into Sherlock's face above, watching as he tensed then shivered, cum spurting onto John's chest and stomach, running over Sherlock's knuckles and into thatches of dark hair.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock as he sank forward, burying his head into John's shoulder,

"I'll always remember this night," Sherlock murmured after their bodies had cooled and they lay together.

"So will I." John kissed Sherlock's forehead, lulled into a deep sleep.

 

**********

The next morning, John lay on his stomach in the low brush, tracking a rabbit through the shotgun sites. Sherlock was next to him, completely still for once.

John cleared his mind, closed his eyes for a second, opened them, inhaled, sited the target, exhaled, squeezed the trigger. He let the jolt pass through his shoulder, heard the crack of the shot reverberate through the air. He closed his eyes again momentarily, trying not to remember the sound of gunfire.

Sherlock half stood, shading his eyes in the direction of the now-still rabbit. He looked at John with admiration. “Nice shot.”

“It’s skill more than luck,” John replied drily, pushing up to his knees. He stood and walked toward the rabbit, Sherlock following.

“Ever skin a rabbit?” John asked over his shoulder.

“Er, no. But I used to watch our cook do it. I was a bit of a macabre child,” Sherlock admitted, watching John pick up the limp animal. “I dissected my share of frogs, too. I was always curious about bodies.”

John suppressed a smirk. “That doesn’t surprise me.” He handed Sherlock the dangling rabbit. “Let's see what you can do.”

 

**********

That night they lay on their backs looking up at the stars splashed and glittering across the dark sky.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“It is,” John agreed. “So different from home.”

John felt Sherlock shift next to him, turning to face him. “John…” he started, then stopped. He picked up the thread again, his voice hesitant. “I received a letter from my brother. I’m going back to London.”

John’s heart seemed to stop. He opened his mouth, barely able to speak one word. “When?”

“I’m leaving for New York in a week. I’ll sail back before winter.”

John stared up at the blackness, unable to say anything.

Sherlock moved closer to him, pressing into his side. “Come with me.”

John silently shook his head.

“Please,” Sherlock said. “At least think about it.”

John shook his head again, sitting up on the blanket. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked in frustration.

“Because of _this,”_ John yanked open his shirt collar, exposing the scar on his shoulder.

Sherlock looked at John, confused. “I don’t understand.”

John exhaled angrily, then glanced away. He eventually spoke in a low, halting voice. “When I lived in London, my wife Mary and I were invited to a party -- a reunion of officers I’d served with in India. It was held at the home of my former commander, Major James Sholto.” He glanced at Sherlock, checking for his reaction. Sherlock was watching him intently, no flicker of recognition on his face. “Do you not read the papers?” John asked in irritation.

“No,” Sherlock answered. “Why?”

“Because you’d know what happened,”John snarled. He twisted a twig in his hands. “Major Sholto had been receiving death threats for more than a year. He was blamed for casualties resulting from a skirmish in Burma, where’d he been transferred. His unit was young, inexperienced… I don’t really know what happened, but 20 of his men died.” John tossed the twig into the fire, watched it burn.

“Despite the death threats, James -- Major Sholto -- elected to host the party. We went, Mary and I…” John thought back, remembering. “We’d been married only four months then… we knew each other only six months before that… not even a year in total.” He swallowed, then pushed on.

“We were among the last at the party. I was saying goodbye to another couple, then noticed Mary was gone, the house empty. I went looking for her. I found her in the study with James.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“Not what you’re thinking,” John said darkly. “Not at all. They were together, but she had a gun pointed at him from across the room.”

“The death threats…” Sherlock breathed.

John nodded. “I didn’t know what was happening. James was behind his desk, so I began walking toward him, thinking I could reason with Mary. I thought maybe she’d lost a brother under his command… She scoffed, said it was just business on behalf of a client. She told me to step away. And then she shot him in the chest.”

John blinked. “I rushed to his side, blood was seeping everywhere... I was scrabbling for his pulse. When I looked up, Mary was pointing the gun at me. She said… she said that she was sorry, but that I was a witness. She pulled the trigger, cold-blooded.”

His hand went to the scar on his shoulder. “Her aim was off, or maybe it was a twinge of remorse. Who the fuck knows… I almost blacked out, but I reacted on instinct, pulled out the pistol that was in James’ hand. He must have had it hidden in the desk, retrieved it too late… She turned to look back at me, raised her gun again… and I shot her.”

John took a deep breath, let it out slowly before speaking again. “When I woke up, I was in hospital. James was dead. Mary had vanished, nothing more than a trail of blood leading outside. The police tried to keep the inquiry private, but news leaked out. There were rumors, lies... my career was ruined. I filed for divorce, left for Baltimore,” John cradled his head in his hands. “I can’t go back."

Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

They were silent, then Sherlock finally spoke. “You did nothing wrong, you know. You defended yourself against a trained assassin -- a murderess.” He paused. “That was nearly four years ago. And one scandal is soon replaced by the next -- which is precisely why I don’t read the papers. Fortunately, the public doesn’t have a long memory.”

“But I do,” John shot back.

They watched the fire snap and burn. “It was my fault,” John said bitterly. “I led her right to him."

“You didn’t know.”

“How could I not know? Why didn’t I see it -- what she really was?”

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. “Some people can’t be read. They’re too... deeply disguised.”

“Even for you?” John asked ruefully.

“Yes. I’ve learned a few lessons the hard way.” Sherlock moved his hand to the back of John’s neck. He fell silent, then raised his head, realization dawning. “Oh,” he gazed at John. “Major Sholto. He was the one… your lover in India who was transferred.”

John looked down at his hands. “We ended as friends.” He averted his eyes. “He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Sherlock kept his palm on John’s neck. “Did they ever find her, or who hired her?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know if she’s dead or alive. She’s dead, as far as I’m concerned. The police discovered she’d been using a false name, was probably part of a larger criminal network.” He wiped his eyes against his sleeve. “I feel like I can’t ever trust my judgment again.”

Sherlock leaned into him. “You can trust me.”

“You’re leaving,” John said coldly.

Sherlock stiffened, his hand dropping away. They stared into the fire, not speaking, each sinking into their own unhappy thoughts.

 

*******

In the night, John felt Sherlock's arm slip around his waist as they laid next to the embers of the fire. John accepted the gesture, trying to forget about the past and the all-too-near future. He'd always known Sherlock wasn't going to stay. Still, there was some part of him that had hoped...

John squeezed his eyes shut. _Don't think._ He reached to find Sherlock's hand and tucked it against his chest, trying to hold on tightly to the present.


	10. Chapter 10

The week sped by too quickly. Sherlock had carefully prepared and shipped his best work to his publisher, and was now sorting and packing the remaining paintings. He had his clothes laundered and pressed in town, dusted off the valises that had been stored under the bed, and convinced John to keep Redbeard after he left.

They spent the last night in John’s bed listening to a late summer storm, low thunder shaking the walls around them.

“It stormed the first night we met,” Sherlock said, looking toward the window.

“Maybe it was some sort of sign,” John answered, not really serious, his head near Sherlock’s shoulder, his hand resting just above his stomach.

“Hmm.” Sherlock shifted his gaze back to John. “I would have gladly had you in my bed that night, if you’d followed me upstairs.”

John smiled, absently stroking Sherlock’s skin with his thumb. “What would Mrs. Hudson have thought if she’d heard us?”

“Oh, I think Mrs. Hudson is very broad-minded,” Sherlock grinned, leaning in to deliver a long kiss. The kiss soon deepened, the mood changing to one of melancholy.

John put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, holding him close. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered, struck with a sudden sense of loss.

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s. “Come with me,” he urged again.

“Don’t go,” John countered.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “It’s beautiful here… it’s been good for me. You’ve been good for me… But I belong in London.” He sought John’s mouth, the sensation bittersweet. "Don’t be angry with me.”

John pulled Sherlock closer. “I’m not angry. I just --” he stopped, knowing it was futile. “I wish things were different.”

They stayed entwined, breathing together, fingers trailing down backs. Sherlock finally spoke again. “How long are you going to hide from the world, John?”

John didn’t answer. He didn’t know.

They curled into each other, listening to the rain on the roof.

 

**********************

John stood in his house, the sudden emptiness profound. He held a piece of paper in his hand, which Sherlock had given him on the platform before he boarded the train.

“Until I establish an address, you can always contact me through my brother. He’s a creature of habit,” Sherlock had said as he handed him the folded paper.

John glanced at it, taking in only the first two lines:  
_Mycroft Holmes_  
_Diogenes Club_

Sherlock pulled out his cigarettes, looking miserable as he plucked one out and offered the case to John. It was a nervous habit, smoking, something to do with their hands as the few remaining minutes ticked by. Sherlock lit John’s cigarette, then his own.

Sherlock noticed John studying the initials engraved on the case.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he announced, taking back the case and slipping it into his pocket. “That’s the whole of it.”

John inhaled deeply, blew out a stream of smoke. “John Hamish Watson. Just so you know.”

“Hamish,” Sherlock repeated, a little doubtfully.

“I’ve always hated it.”

Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile, and then the train whistle blew, signaling its departure.

They looked at each other, shocked, dismayed, people rushing by them to board.

Sherlock finally held out his hand and John grasped it slowly.

“I would very much like to see you again, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said softly.

John held his hand, desperately trying to memorize his face, his eyes, his voice. “Good-bye, Sherlock.”

They reluctantly broke their hands apart and Sherlock turned away. A second passed, two, then in a swift motion, John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him back into a hard embrace, breathing him in one last time. “Sherlock…” John whispered his name once more, his lips against his ear.

The whistle blew again, and John’s eyes stung as he watched Sherlock’s narrow frame disappear up the steps and into the train carriage. John searched the windows for a last glimpse of Sherlock’s face, but did not find him. The train rolled slowly away, picking up speed, disappearing as a dot on the eastern horizon.

John now walked to his desk and carefully placed the paper with the address inside his ledger for safekeeping. His eyes then fell on the Whitman book resting on top of the desk. Sherlock must have returned it unnoticed.

John picked up the book and saw another paper peeking out from between the pages, serving as a bookmark. He held the place with his thumb and pulled out the paper -- the sketch of John sleeping that day at the river. His mouth quirked up in a small smile.

He glanced down at the pages where it had been placed, and noticed a star drawn in pencil in one margin, marking a passage:

_For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover_  
_in the cool night,_  
_In the stillness of the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined_  
_toward me,_  
_And his arm lay lightly around my breast -- and that night I was_  
_happy._

John sat down heavily in his chair, the book open in his lap, his head in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from Walt Whitman’s Calamus poems: "When I Heard at the Close of the Day"


	11. Chapter 11

John slowly reverted to his life alone, but a new restlessness had lodged itself in his body. He spent more evenings in town, staying as usual in Mrs. Hudson’s boarding house. He sometimes had a drink at the tavern, occasionally attended a show at the new opera house, then aimlessly strolled the ever-expanding streets.

The town had grown rapidly since gold had been discovered in the hills several miles south of town. John had no interest in joining the frenzy of prospectors and speculation, but he watched it unfold with detached interest. New businesses had sprung up -- another hotel, more saloons, stables, stores, a lavish bordello. He avoided that establishment, knowing full well the unappealing assortment of diseases that could be contracted.

In May, he rode into town to be fitted for a new suit to wear to Sheriff Lestrade and Miss Hooper’s wedding in a few weeks. Molly was glowing when they’d chatted over breakfast at Mrs. Hudson’s that morning.

“I really have to thank Mr. Holmes for bringing Greg and me together,” she said. “Do you correspond with him? I’d love to send him a little note.”

John cleared his throat. “Well, no, I haven’t actually written him. I’ve meant to, many times, but…” He trailed off. He _had_ meant to -- but every time he’d picked up a pen, his mind froze. What was there to say? The apsen leaves have turned golden. It snowed again. The coyotes were out during the full moon. Mrs. Hudson is getting along fine despite her bad hip. I miss you.

None of it mattered, John thought, not when London was thousands of miles away.

Later, after breakfast, John gazed at the painting of the morning glories Sherlock had given Mrs. Hudson, which she had framed and hung in the hallway. She saw him admiring it and stood beside him.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “Something to remember him by.”

“Yes, it is,” John replied, thinking back to the first night he met Sherlock and the strange current that ran between them on the porch. Then he remembered something else. “I still have the Walt Whitman book you lent me. I’ll bring it next time.”

Mrs. Hudson tilted her head thoughtfully, then patted his arm. “Why don’t you keep it, dear?”

John watched her as she bustled back to the kitchen, wondering if she knew.

 

**************

Molly and Greg were married. The summer heat came and went. The apsen leaves turned yellow again. It snowed. The coyotes howled under a cold moon, another year went by, and John tried to move on.

It was spring again, and John had just escorted his dinner companion back to her home at a respectable hour. She was a schoolteacher, new to the area. She had long brunette hair, a sly wit, was smart and pretty. Sarah. He liked the name, he liked her. They had met at Mrs. Hudson’s when she first arrived, before she found permanent lodgings with a pair of elderly sisters.

They had been seeing each other for more than two months, and it was fine… but it wasn’t like it had been with Sherlock. Nothing ever would be, John knew deep down.

John had barely kissed Sarah, a quick brush across her lips in the shadows, holding her hand on the porch, a brief touch on her waist. It lacked intensity, passion. He’d forgotten how slow courtship was, how dull it could be.

It wasn’t Sarah’s fault. She was bound by conventions, had a position to uphold. Their interactions were limited by societal norms, which John had largely been able to escape by living as far away from society as he could reasonably manage.

As John walked back to the boarding house, he mulled over his future. Could he picture himself with Sarah, settling down with her, living in town, attending school plays and social functions, establishing an office to see patients, living out his days in quiet normalcy?

His stomach tightened at the thought. Or would he rather live alone in the hills, crazy old Doc Watson, talking to horses, sitting on his porch, slowly drinking himself to death, scribbling out penny dreadful stories?

He stopped on the front steps of the boarding house, his body stiff with panic at the two scenarios laid out before him. He had just put his hand against the porch column to steady himself when the door flew open and Mrs. Hudson fluttered out.

“Oh, Doctor Watson, there you are.” She sounded worried, her voice quavering. “A telegram came for you. I didn’t mean to read it, but I signed for it… and, anyway, here.” She thrust the rectangle of paper at him.

He took it from her hand and scanned it quickly. His face went ashen, his stomach tightening again.

“I’m so sorry about your father, John,” Mrs. Hudson said quietly, then returned inside.

John re-read the short note.

_Father has passed away. Don’t know what to do with the house. Please come home. Harry_

 

*************

John made up his mind quickly. Within a month he had sold his own house, packed the bare minimum of belongings, given Redbeard and Bluebell to Greg and Molly, said farewell to Sarah and Mrs. Hudson, and boarded the train to Baltimore. He booked immediate passage to England, and shook the dust of the New World from his boots.

He was finally ready to go back home and face whatever ghosts remained. His father’s death had woken him up, made him realize time was limited, that his exile had to come to an end before his life faded away entirely.

So he would reconnect with Harry, help settle his father’s estate, and slip back into London with the hope that all memory of the scandal had faded with time. With the sale of his property and a potential inheritance, for once he did not worry about finances.

John now lay on the cramped berth in the small cabin of the passenger ship, trying unsuccessfully to read in the dim light. He could not wait for the voyage to end. He’d been traveling for weeks and he was tired, his stomach vaguely queasy from the constant motion of the sea.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the short beard that he’d grown over the past month. He’d been too busy to shave consistently and had eventually given up, letting it grow out. He’d finally sought out the ship’s barber to trim it yesterday when the sea was calm.

It made him look different, John thought, older, a bit tougher. But maybe that was because of the way his eyes looked now, wary and a bit weary.

John cast his mind ahead, wondering if he’d recognize Harry -- and she him -- at the docks where they were planning to meet. They’d drifted apart years ago, had never really been that close. But now they were all the family they had left.

His mind then fleetingly turned to Sherlock, wondering where he was. John had never managed to write, nor had Sherlock contacted him. Sherlock’s absence still left a strange gaping hole in John’s heart, one that he skirted around in avoidance, only occasionally peering over the edge into the unfathomable abyss.

Two more days, John thought, slowly falling asleep despite the heat and noise and sway of the ship, and he would be home.

 

******************

The house was smaller than John remembered. His father had seemed so large, so commanding, but now the cottage -- and his father -- seemed to have shrunk. John had missed the funeral, of course, but he had dutifully visited the graveyard, feeling hollow at the sight of his parents’ headstones.

Harry looked well, was not drinking like she used to, as far as he could tell. She now worked in an office outside of London and shared a house with another woman. Clara, she said her name was.

John and Harry talked more than they ever had as they sorted old papers, marked furniture to keep or auction, rolled up rugs and boxed up books, packed up clothing to be donated to charity. He told her stories about ranchers and gold prospectors, horse rides into the mountains, the little girl with the broken leg. But not Sherlock.

Harry finally went home, needing to return to work. John was staying on at the house, finishing up the packing and dealing with the last legalities. They would sell the house eventually, and he would return to London, try to find work at a hospital or surgery.

John now stood by the stove waiting for the kettle to boil. He let his eyes wander around the stacks of boxes and belongings lining the walls. So this is what a life amounted to, he thought morosely. He wondered who would box up his things when he finally died.

He shook his head, focused his attention back on the tea he was making, then settled in what used to be his mother’s favorite chair. He blew across the top of the china cup to cool the tea, then gazed at the envelope propped against the sugar bowl on the table.

_Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Diogenes Club. London._

John had finally written to Sherlock, a short impersonal note letting him know of his return to England and current address. He need only send it now. He would do it tomorrow, John told himself firmly.

There was a knock at the door, causing John to jump. He sighed. Probably more papers to sign or a neighbor stopping by to offer condolences. John grudgingly set his cup in the saucer and got up to answer the door. He pulled it open, saw a tall gentleman dressed in an elegant suit gazing out toward the garden.

“Yes?” John asked a bit impatiently.

The man turned, his face in shadows. He took off his hat, swept a hand through dark hair, then looked up, his blue eyes and sharp cheekbones unmistakable.

“Hello, John.”


	12. Chapter 12

As John stared, he could feel his own features shifting through a thousand tiny uncontrollable expressions. He took an involuntary step backwards, completely unprepared for this apparition in front of him.

“I’m sorry. I should have sent word before coming,” Sherlock apologized. “But I was eager to see you. My condolences about your father.”

John could only continue to stare wordlessly at Sherlock. He was broader through the shoulders, more solid, every line accentuated by the fine cut of his dark suit, the brocade waistcoat adding to his dashing appearance. Somehow he’d become even more striking in the two years since John had last seen him.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow expectantly at John. “May I come in?”

John shook himself out of his reverie. “Of course, of course.” He moved aside and let Sherlock pass by, then closed the door. “I didn’t expect -- I mean, how did -- my God.” John stumbled through his disjointed thoughts as Sherlock looked around the room with interest.

“I saw an obituary in the papers. Dr. Hamish Watson. The name caught my eye.”

“I thought you didn’t read the papers,” John pointed out.

Sherlock smiled. “I’ve found they have their uses. From there it was a simple matter of monitoring ships’ manifests for a Dr. John. H. Watson departing from Baltimore, making a few local inquiries, and so…”

“Here you are,” John finished.

Sherlock met his eyes. “Yes. Here we are.”

They looked wordlessly at each other, taking in what they remembered, adjusting to what had changed.

“The beard almost intimidates me,” Sherlock finally said, absently touching his own jaw. “You look regal. Like a king.”

“And you look well,” John replied cautiously.

Sherlock’s eyes slid to the table, a bit uncertain. “I’ve interrupted your tea,” he said quietly.

John’s heart skipped a beat when Sherlock’s gaze landed on the envelope on the table. He moved forward and snatched it up, suddenly feeling exposed.

 _You’re being an idiot,_ he chided himself before slowly handing it to Sherlock. “I was just about to put this in the post… letting you know I was here.”

Sherlock placed his hat carefully on the table and accepted the envelope. He looked at it for a long time before speaking. “All that time… you never wrote.”

John glanced away. “Neither did you.”

Sherlock kept his gaze turned downward. “I suppose I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to write, but more and more time passed, and I thought you might have… I don’t know… forgotten.”

John looked at Sherlock again. “I couldn’t forget. God knows there were times I wanted to.”

A see-sawing of tension and relief hung between them. John was seized with the simultaneous urges of wanting to hug Sherlock tightly, punch him hard, and kiss him harder, and his fist flexed in conflict.

John was rooted to the spot, then found himself striding forward, grabbing Sherlock below the shoulders, swiftly propelling him against the table. The tea cup rattled violently in its saucer, the hat tumbled to the floor, and John’s heart pounded erratically in his chest as he stood looking at Sherlock. Pinned into place, Sherlock held his gaze, sinking down slowly to sit on the table edge, waiting silently for whatever would happen next, an errant lock of hair falling across his forehead.

John searched Sherlock’s face, his fingers digging into firm triceps, his eyes dropping to the lips that still haunted his dreams.

His mouth descended roughly over Sherlock’s, wanting to punish him for leaving, for reappearing unannounced, for being the one person in the world who stirred up in him such a wild ache. Sherlock’s hands grasped John’s back, his fingers knotting into his shirt, pulling him closer.

They finally drew back, their breathing uneven, their fierce grip on each other loosening but not breaking away. A clock ticked on the mantel, filling the silence.

Sherlock tugged on John’s shirt again, bringing his mouth back for a gentler kiss, his hands sliding up to John’s cheeks, fingertips stroking down his beard, exploring the texture.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured.

“I should have--” John started, then stopped, opting instead to kiss Sherlock again, lips and beard and tongue and teeth against that full mouth and long pale neck, the skin no longer bronzed by the sun.

In an instant, two years dropped away to mere seconds. John let himself be carried away, rushed along in a torrent of pent-up lust and longing. He peeled off Sherlock's topcoat, their fingers fumbled at buttons on waistcoats, hands slid haphazardly under layers of clothes -- so damned many barriers of fabric and ties and buttons, they couldn’t be bothered to undo them properly. John straddled Sherlock's thigh as he pressed him against the table edge, his hands moving down to work apart Sherlock’s trouser buttons.

Skin. God, how he craved to touch bare skin again. John pushed his fingers down Sherlock's drawers, curling around the heat of hardening cock. Sherlock gasped open-mouthed against John's neck, his leg sliding under John’s groin, his hands grasping John's arse.

The shift of that leg created a delicious pressure at the base of John’s balls and he rubbed against it, his hand around Sherlock's cock moving in time with his raw undulations, their mouths wide and wet and panting, the heavy table scraping against the floor in small jerking motions.

Sherlock's fingers dug into John' haunches, rocking him into deeper ruts against his leg, his hips thrusting into John’s hand as much as John’s weight against him would allow. John was lost in a desperate haze of hot breath, constricting clothing half undone, rattling china, groaning wood, urgent grunts. His cock bulged against his flies, tight, straining -- _fuck,_ he was going to climax soon, it had been so long since he’d touched anyone this intimately, since anyone had touched him back, no one since Sherlock -- _God_ \--

John closed his eyes, trying to hold on a few seconds longer, feeling a slickness on his fingers where his fist worked over Sherlock's shaft, hearing the hitch in Sherlock’s breath. Sherlock moved his hand down, cupping the underside of John’s cock, sliding his palm up in a rough stroke against stiff fabric -- _oh God -- too much --_

John felt the wave of his orgasm rise up from the root of his cock, shimmer through his spine, and collapse over his body as he came in his trousers, still pressing into Sherlock. He was vaguely aware of the low moan near his ear and heat covering his hand as Sherlock shuddered against him, his mouth smearing along his collarbone.

They slumped against the table, breathless, legs weak, trousers damp, Sherlock’s cheeks and mouth reddened from the rough bristles of John’s beard. They finally met each other’s eyes again, a bit surprised at the speed and intensity of their reunion.

Sherlock ran a hand down John’s chest as if trying to smooth his shirt and restore some order to the torrid scene. “I was hoping I might stay for a cup of tea, but that… that was unexpected.”

John tilted Sherlock’s chin up to claim his mouth once more. “You’re not leaving tonight.”

“No,” Sherlock answered, gripping John’s shirt again, “I don’t believe I am.”


	13. Chapter 13

Time and tea and the outside world were forgotten, their clothes falling aside in slow layers, left in a heap. John laid down with Sherlock on the bed in the guest room, touching and tasting and rediscovering.

Some of the boyishness had left Sherlock’s face, his body was harder. John ran his hands over the ropy muscles of his back and shoulders, breathed in the scents of bergamot soap and Turkish tobacco that clung to his skin. He shivered when Sherlock’s hand smoothed up his inner thigh.

The mattress sagged a bit in the middle, providing a rather helpful angle when John moved between Sherlock’s legs and parted his knees, ever-so-gradually sinking into him, drinking in his face, his own head tilting back as he rocked slowly forward and back, finding a sultry pace. John savored the way Sherlock bit his bottom lip and rolled his head to the side, his fingers wrapping around the scrollwork of the iron bed frame behind him.

John dipped his mouth down to Sherlock’s in a languorous kiss, then lowered his body further to cover Sherlock’s chest with his own, his elbows braced on either side, his forearms sliding under Sherlock’s head, hips pumping. Sherlock’s hands wrapped behind John’s neck, clutching him tighter, their faces pressed together, hot breaths fanning against cheeks, muffled sighs and moans filling the small room.

John thrusted deeper, faster until Sherlock gasped, bucking upwards, neck extended, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. John came with a long groan, holding onto Sherlock as if he might drown, semen and flesh and sweat and bones pressed between them. They collapsed together, panting, hearts pounding.

_Two years,_ John thought, _how had they lived without this? Without each other?_

He buried his face in Sherlock's neck. “I’m so glad you found me again,” he whispered against Sherlock’s throat, emotions suddenly flooding through him. “I was lost without you.”

Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s forehead, murmuring one word: “John…”

 

**************

The next morning, as they lay in the soft bed, Sherlock trailing a lazy hand down John’s arm, they finally managed a complete conversation.

“What are you painting now?” John asked, toying with a curl behind Sherlock’s ear.

“Nothing.”

John looked at him in surprise.

“In fact,” Sherlock said, shifting to rest on his elbow, “I have a new profession.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” John turned onto his side to better see Sherlock’s face.

“When I first returned to London, my brother assigned me several tasks, mostly to keep an eye on me, I suppose. Small jobs on behalf of queen and country, you could say, using my observational skills and memory for detail. All the legwork that my brother hates.”

“I see,” John said, not really understanding.

“I quickly found I was good at it -- following rather unsavory individuals, uncovering private information, noticing details even the police miss.” He rolled his eyes. “Idiots. I located an art forger, a jewel thief, and a murderer within a month.”

John’s mouth hung open slightly in amazement as Sherlock went on.

“I continued working for my brother, cultivating sources, brushing up on my chemistry, finding a laboratory where I can borrow this and that... And now I work for myself.”

“Doing what?” John asked, flabbergasted.

“I’m a consulting detective. I invented the job. Only one in the world.”

John shook his head, confused. “But what does that mean?”

“I accept clients -- quite often it’s Scotland Yard, other times it’s someone looking for their missing child, suspected foul play, embezzlement, affairs, smuggling -- even a supposed ghost once. That was all bunk, of course.” Sherlock tilted his head. “The murders are always fascinating.”

“Bit dangerous, isn’t it?” John said dubiously. “Mixing with that element?”

“I’ve been nearly strangled once. Almost stabbed one other time. Didn’t see the knife,” Sherlock grinned. “There’s nothing more exciting than the thrill of the hunt, finding the one clue that breaks it all open--” he gripped John’s wrist. “You’d love it. I could use someone with medical expertise, especially for the cases involving injuries."

John felt torn -- the infectiousness of Sherlock’s enthusiasm was tempered by the painful memory of gun shots, blood covering his hands, the scar on his shoulder, the countless wounds he had treated.

Sherlock seemed to remember at the same time, too, and loosened his grip. “But perhaps it’s not of interest to you, not after all you’ve seen.”

John remained silent, turning over in his mind his failed attempts to live a settled existence, how he nearly let his life fade away to nothing, how much more alive he felt with Sherlock. He looked up, his eyes determined. “I think I’d like to see some more.”

Sherlock’s hand tightened over John’s wrist again, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Then come back with me to London.”

John laughed, amazed at the madness that had unfolded in the past few hours. “I can’t -- not until everything here is settled. And where would I live?”

“With me,” Sherlock answered quickly. “My flat is big enough for the two of us. Mrs. Turner, the landlady, lives downstairs. Sweet old thing, brings up tea sometimes.”

John hesitated, and Sherlock pressed on. “There’s a second bedroom upstairs. So you needn’t worry about people talking.” He paused, then added one more enticement. “Just think of the stories you could write…”

That caught John’s attention. Sherlock had already thought of everything. _Madness. This was utter, perfect madness._

“And just where is this flat?” John asked.

“Central London. Baker Street.”

John nodded once, deep in thought, then once more, firmer. “Well, then, it seems I’ll have to come and have a look. See if it’s suitable.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find it to your liking, particularly your new flatmate,” Sherlock replied, sliding a leg over John’s, tipping him closer, their lips mere inches apart. “But I have one stipulation.”

“And what’s that?

”That you shave. It’s all… bristly.”

John laughed again, shook his head. “I’m not shaving for you, Mr. Holmes.”

“We’ll see about that.” Sherlock hooked two fingers under John’s jaw and drew him to his lips. “I can be very persuasive.”

John smiled through the kiss, a warmth filling his body as he ran his hands up Sherlock’s back. The warmth was contentment, happiness -- hope. He gazed at Sherlock as they drew apart and settled their heads on the pillows again.

John traced the curve of Sherlock’s cheekbone with his thumb, unable to remember the last time he’d felt so at peace. He wanted to feel this way forever, wake each day to this beautiful, impetuous, brilliant man.

“I should have come back with you two years ago,” John said softly.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “I don’t think you were ready.”

John was taken aback, a protest forming in his mouth, but then he fell silent, knowing Sherlock was right. He had needed the time to truly understand what he wanted.

Another realization slowly dawned on him. “You… waited for me?” John asked tentatively.

Sherlock glanced away, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “That’s what people do, isn’t it? When they’re stupidly in love?”

John’s heart leapt as he gathered Sherlock in his arms, ardently kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his brow. “I’m never letting you go again,” he breathed. “Oh, God, Sherlock… I love you. I love you so much.”


	14. Epilogue

**_London_ **

John whisked the shaving brush in the silver cup and dabbed the lather on his face, smoothing it over his cheeks in brisk, well-practiced motions. He had shaved his beard off many months ago, finally giving in to Sherlock’s request.

He peered into the mirror over the sink, carefully stroked the razor down his jaw. Sherlock had been out for hours already, he mused. He remembered feeling the bed shift, the sun not even up yet. He was conscious of a quick buss near his ear before falling asleep again.

John rinsed the razor in the sink, turned his head to work on the other side, contemplating how he’d moved into the Baker Street flat almost a year ago to the day. He’d quickly adjusted to living in London again, and had adapted to living with Sherlock even more quickly.

John liked the flat's tall windows that allowed light to stream into the sitting room, the cozy fireplace, the bookshelves lining the walls. He cared less for the microscope, corked bottles of odd substances, stacks of papers, and dirty dishes that Sherlock left abandoned on the tables and desk.

Sherlock still stole the covers in the middle of the night, still regularly insulted and angered people, and still made John’s pulse race with a hooded glance or touch of his hand.

John marveled at how free they were with each other in such intimate ways, mouths and pricks and tongues roaming, fingertips skimming over hipbones and spines and shoulder blades. John could not think of a surface in the flat they had not christened in some heated moment of passion -- tables, sofa, chairs, stairs, beds, rugs… They were much more constrained in the outside world, only rarely daring a grope in the confines of a carriage, a tender midnight kiss in a darkened doorway.

Thankfully, two bachelors sharing a set of rooms merited little attention in a city of six million people. Nor did anyone seem to recall the scandal that had driven John overseas years ago. It had faded, like so many other sordid stories, into the past. John was grateful that his name was common enough not to spark any memories.

What people did notice now was the increasing profile of Sherlock Holmes, detective. Several papers were beginning to follow his cases, and the number of clients who wrote to him or rapped the heavy brass door knocker was increasing. Mrs. Turner threatened to raise the rent, she was so busy answering the door and making tea for visitors. John suspected she actually loved being part of the excitement.

John also had a significant hand in Sherlock’s growing reputation, thanks to the slim volume of stories based on their cases he’d published a few months ago. His editor was already asking for more. Sherlock had glanced at the book, criticized the illustrations, and accused John of overdramatizing the events. Again, John suspected Sherlock secretly enjoyed the attention.

John toweled off his face, readjusted the tie of of his dressing gown, and went to the kitchen to make tea and toast. He sat at the table and sipped his tea, leafing through the book of Walt Whitman poems Mrs. Hudson had given him. He had sent her a copy of his own book, and she had written back an enthusiastic letter filled with exclamation points and endearments to them both.

He liked to reread the Whitman poems now and then, always finding something new in the earthy and mystical language. He flipped to the back, his eyes landing on a fragment of an unfinished poem.

 _The rage of an unconquerable fierceness is conquered by the touch of the tenderest hand_  
_I cannot be awake, for nothing looks to me as it did before,_  
_Or else I am awake for the first time, and all before has been a mean sleep._

John thought back to several years ago, to all the sorrow and regret and pain that had caused him to stop feeling, to move through the days alone and half-asleep. And then Sherlock had crashed into his life. Happenstance, Sherlock had said that day long ago, mere chance that he’d bought a ticket the farthest west he could go, their paths crossing in a smoky tavern in a dusty town.

John wasn’t sure if he believed in fate, but he believed Sherlock had awakened him again, restarted his heart. He only wished he’d realized it sooner.

Just then the door at the bottom of the steps banged open and footsteps bounded up the stairs. Sherlock burst into the room. “Get dressed. We’ve got a train to catch.”

The cup stopped halfway to John’s lips. “What? Now?”

“For God’s sake, get dressed. I’ll explain on the way.”

John hurriedly swallowed his tea and shoved the remaining corner of toast into his mouth while heading to his room upstairs where he kept his things. He rarely used the bed, instead sleeping downstairs each night with Sherlock.

“What’s the case?” John called down the steps as he fixed his buttons.

“Headless nun,” Sherlock called back. “Absolutely marvelous.”

John dressed in record time and swept into the sitting room, taking the coat Sherlock held out for him. He slipped it on, adjusting his cuffs.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, a familiar gleam of excitement lighting his eyes as he handed John his hat.

John settled his hat on his head, tipping it at a jaunty angle. “Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from the Walt Whitman manuscript fragment "[Can ?]"
> 
> Well, that's the end of the long and winding road getting the boys back to Baker Street. Thanks for reading, and special thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments. It's so helpful and encouraging to get feedback. 
> 
> I had fun writing this, doing a bit of historical research, blending in Whitman's poetry (he's either laughing or rolling in his grave), throwing in a multitude of tiny allusions to the BBC Sherlock show (did you catch them?), challenging myself to write only from John's POV, and pushing myself to write longer (I'm a short-form junkie). 
> 
> Now I'll have to see where the muse takes me next...


End file.
